And when the rose-petals are scattered 5
At dead of still noon on the grass-plot,
What means this passionate grief,--
This infinite ache of regret?




XLIII


Surely somehow, in some measure,
There will be joy and fulfilment,--
Cease from this throb of desire,--
Even for Sappho!

Surely some fortunate hour 5
Phaon will come, and his beauty
Be spent like water to plenish
Need of that beauty!

Where is the breath of Poseidon,
Cool from the sea-floor with evening? 10
Why are Selene's white horses
So long arriving?